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1916 

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UC-NRLF 


GIFT  OF 


SONNETS 

1913-1916 


WHEATON   HALE  BREWER 
1916 


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To  My  Aunt;  A  Dedication 

Out  of  the  tangled  wilderness  of  youth, 
A  guide,  a  friend,  a  worthy  leader  came: 
She  led  my  faltering  fingers  in  a  game 

Whose  ways  were  wisdom,  and  whose  aim  was  truth. 

And  so  I  wrought  my  verses,  rude,   uncouth;  — 
But  she  scanned  my  poor  efforts  with  the  same 
Respect  she  gave  the  poets  of  deathless  fame, 

Noting  my  errors  in  words  full  of  ruth. 

Such  was  my  guardian  spirit  and  my  guide; 

And  since  those  days,  in  all  the  songs  I've  sung, 
Her  words  as  trenchant  weapons  by   my  side 

I  hold,  to  purge  the  excess  of  the  tongue, 
And  clear  my  path   of  visions  that  deride 
My  hold  upon  the  ladder's  lowest  rung. 

November,   1916. 


To  The  Clouds-;  A  Sonnet 

Sails  of  the  gay-painted  ship  of  the  sky, 
Birds  of  the  storm,  and  children  of  the  wind, 
Why  flee  ye  now  so  fast?     What   do  ye  find 

Yonder,  beyond  those  heaving  seas  that  lie 

Half-way  around  the  globe?     Or  do  ye  fly 

The  weary  wastes  of  air   in   wanderings  blind, 
Seeking  but  to  enmingle  with  thy  kind?  ' 

Say!  will  thy  object  fail  should  the  wind  die? 

Nay!  I  know  that  ye  have  an  object  true 
So  tell  me,  clouds  of  the  evanescent  blue 
Tell  me,  oh  tell  me,  where  and  what  ye  seek; 

Perchance  upon  Imagination's  wings 

Swinging  aloft  o'er  wave  and  plain  and  peak, 

I  seek  my  love,  the  while  life's  soft  wind  sings. 

May,  1913. 


To  The  Canyon  Wren 

Thine  need  not  be  such  heavenly  music  clear 
As   peals   in    vibrant   chords   that   cannot    die; 
Thine  need  not  be  that  song  which  cleaves  the  sky; 

Then  hastes  away  for  all  the  weary  year. 

For,  Canyon  Wren,  when  thy  sweet  song  sounds  near, 
And  the  great  cliffs  in  echoes  make  reply, 
From  every  breast  all  toils  and  troubles  fly, 

And  in  their  place  come  memories  too  dear 

For  voice.     For  music's  charm  is  what  it  makes 
Of  us,  not  what  we  make  of  it.     And  so, 
I  say,  when  in  the  morn,  or  noon,  or  eve, 

Thy  sweet  and  happy  echo  trills  and  shakes, 
1  thrill  to  hear  it,  and  I  truly  know 
It  leavs  a  joyousness  else  can  leave. 

June,   1914.  Courtesy — Santa  Barbara  Press. 

Burlingame   Advance. 


To   The   Memorial   Tablet 

Cold  bronze,  and   colder  marble,   still   and  mute 
As  those  chill  forms  thy  letters  call  to  mind, 
Stretched,  voiceless  to  the  weltering  waves  and  wind, 

What  matters   now  the  song,   or  cheery   flute? 

Rather  upon   some   melancholy   lute 

We  should  thy  dirge  in  mournful  numbers  find, 
For  sorrow  turns,  in  music,  to  its  kind, 

And  grief,  by  music,  seems  less  destitute. 

Wherefore  I  bid  ye,  bronze,  and  marble  cold, 
Take  on  a  more  ethereal,   lighter  form; 
Cast  off  thy  cold  externals  to  the  storm, 

And  wear  but  memory's  vesture,  spun  with  gold 
Which  will  those  lofty  feelings  well  preserve 
That  brave  words  win,  and  braver  deeds  deserve. 

April,    1915.  Courtesy — S.    M.    S.    Skirmisher. 

Burlingame    Advance. 


A  Tribute 

To  thee  oh  poppy  homage  do  I  bring, 
And  to  the  poet  who  first  gave  her  voice 
To  all  thy  beauties:  who  made  to  rejoice 

The  hearts  of  mortals  at  a  fragile  thing — 

A  golden  poppy  in  the  emerald  spring. 
It  is  beyond  my  skill,  and  e'en  my  choice 
To  raise  in  rivalry  my  puerile  voice 

In  praise  of  California's  flower  king, 

And  of  its  painter.     Yet  I  must,  express, 
For  thee,  fair  poppy,  a  great  tenderness. 
Over  the  fields  thy  radiance  rims  the  view 
Painting  the  hills  in  patterns  ever  new. 

The  essence  of  the  spring  is  thine  in  truth, 
Gold  poppy,  token  of  eternal  youth. 
(To  Miss  Ina  Coolbrith.) 
May,    1915.  Courtesy — Burlingame    Advance. 


July  Fourth,  1915 

A  nation's  birthday!      The  long  years  have  passed 
Since  freemen  won  from  soverign  their  release 
And  built  a  union  that  can  never  cease, 

Where  concord,  living,  learning,  have  at  last 

No  more  by  warring  dynasties  harrassed, 
Grown  to  be  free  from  royalty's  caprice, 
And  our  broad  land  stands  foremost  now  in  peace, 

While  far-off  nations,  starving,  have  amassed 

Huge  armies  meant  to  rend  the  world  apart, 
And  stain  the  world  with  blood  from  freedom's  heart. 
Then  celebrate  the  birthday  of  our  land —  , 

The  home  of  freedom,  liberty's  fair  strand. 

Rejoice  in  peace,  and  guard  with  jealous  eye 
Our  nation's  birthday  that  must  never  die. 
July,    1915.  Courtesy — Burlingame    Advance. 


To  The  Campanile. 

White  Campanile!      Arrow  tipped  with  chimes, 
Thy   base   enfounded   in   the   ages'    lore, 
Thy  summit  lift  thou  upward,  more  and  more 

Into  the  pureness  of  those  sunny   climes, 

Unfettered  from  the  rigor  of  old  times. 
Born  out  of  wisdom,  to  be  free  you  soar, 
Impatient,  from  earth's  time  and  tide  bound  shore, 

Calling  to  look  from  earth  with  thee  betimes, 

We  toilers  of  the  land.     We  may  descry 

A  meaning  in  thy  purity  of  dress, 
Belled  arrow,  shooting  upward  to  the  sky; 

Thy  message  is  to  all  who  would  progress; 
That  beauty  of  itself,   will  soar  on   high, 

And  blent  with  knowledge,  will  bring  happiness. 

August,  1915. 


On  Leaving  The  Exposition 

i  saw  amid  the  star-shine  in  the  west, 
The  fairy  city  of  a  thousand  dreams, 
Bay-bordered — vivid  with  a  myriad  gleams 

Of  brilliance,   where   the   lingering  light   caressed 

The  trees  and  turrets,   while  far-off,   there  pressed 

White  sails,  so  like  a  child's  pure  thought  that  seems 
To  drift  unfettered,  along  fancy's  streams, 

And  nestle  in  the  far  horizon's  breast. 

Turrets  and  banners  dip  away  and  flee 

Nothing  but  wraith-like  memories  seem  to  stay. 

Oh  what  a  sight  to  gaze  upon,  and  see 
Fading  to   darkness!    an   etherial   ray 

That  shows  so  clear,  yet  soft,  things  that  will  be 
When  all  the  world  awakens  to  bright  day. 

October,   1915.  Courtesy — S.   F.   Chronicle. 


I  Sense  The  Spring 

I  sense  the  springtime  in  the  golden  glow 
Of  countless   blossoms  on   acacia   trees; 
While  soft  scents  float  like  music  on  the  breeze 

That  softly  sways  each  blossomed  bough  below 

The  panoply  of  sapphire-shielded  sky.      Row 
Upon  row,  the  hillcrests  rise.     On  these 
The  new  year  casts  its  blazonry.     The  bees 

Are    humming,    nectar    laden,    flying    slow. 

And  songs  from  birds,  that  purl  like  crystal  streams 
Echo  from  winter's  disappearing  shrouds 

That  cross  the  sky,  and  melt,  and  then  are  furled, 
While  in  their  place,  faint  ribbons  float  like  themes 
Of  far,   celestial   music.      From   these  clouds 

I  sense  the  birth  of  spring  in  this  our  world. 
March,    1916. 


Oh  Titan  Birth! 

Titanic  was  the  struggle  of  your  birth, 

Sierras,  children  of  the  rugged  past! 

The  whole  world  trembled,  shook,  and  stood  aghast 
And  the  high  heavens  blazed  in  awful  mirth. 
And  Nature  wept  in  pity  at  your  dearth, 

When  you,  the  new  born,  shuddered  in   the  blast; 

While  underneath,  by  pain  and   woe  harrassed, 
Anguished   and  groaned    your    parent-mother,    Earth. 

But,  tall  Sierras,  you  have  reared  your  crests; 
Have  ripped  the  still  air  with  your  snowy  tops, 
Have  rung  the  clouds  of  all  their  stolen  rain, 
And  inch  by  inch,  at  countless  storms'  behest 

Back  to  the  earth — washed  back  by  myriad  drops, 

Titanic   still,   you   waste   away   again. 
September,   1916. 


A  Guidepost  On  The  Narrow  Path 

To  some  the  sonnet  is  a  tinted  shell, 

A  monument — a   key  that  loosed   the   soul 
Of  Milton,  Petrarch,  Dante.      Years  may   roll 

Above  it,  and  yet  sheer  from  out  the  swell 

Of  Time's  tumultuous  ocean  it  shall  tell 

The  world  of  hidden  reefs  that  take  stern  toll 
Of  travelers  seeking  for  life's  highest  goal. 

A  light  it  is,  the  darkness  to  dispel. 

To  me  the  sonnet  is  the  still  small  voice; 

It  is  the  feather  on  the  camel's  back. 
Its  fairy  strains  may  lead  one  to  rejoice, 

Or  fill   a  lonely   heart  with   all   its   lack. 
The  sonnet  is  the  guidepost  to  our  choice — 

The  finger  on  the  straight  and  narrow  track. 
October,  1916 


Ara  Poi  fiieihT  (Whither  Gone?) 

I  read  the  old  Greek  masters,  and  I  feel 

The  pulse  and  thrill  of  those  Athenian  days. 
I   tread   with   Agammenon   that  .great   maze 

That  ended  neath  the  purple  with  the  steel. 

Prometheus  within  me  calls  to  heel 

The  dire  Jove,  last  judge  of  men's  affrays, 
And  with  the  Colchian  woman,  I  too  praise 

Athena,  guard  of  noble  Athens'  weal. 

Where   now   is   reverence  as   Orestes   knew? 

Where  now  is  Justice  known  and   sought   by  all? 

Where  generosity  not  shamed  by  greed, 

And  vengeance  as  of  old,  so  sure,  so  true? 

Over  the  deeds  of  Greece  we  draw  a  pall, 

And  turn  to   Christians,   squabbling  over   creed. 
November,  1916. 


A    Toast 

1  well  remenYber,  as  one  spring  went  by, 

How  my  small  brother,  fever-gripped  and  pale, 
Struggled   for   long   before   he   could   prevail, 

And  turn  away  grim  Death.     I  could  descry 

The  worry  in  my  father's  face.     The  sigh 
That  was  my  mother's  told  how  in  the  scale 
The  balance  hung.     But  from  that  shadowy  vale 

He  wandered  back,  and  then,  with  wondering  eye, 

Hour  by  hour,  day  by  day,  I  watched 

My   parents.      Always   tender,    patient,    mild, 

Forgiving  of  his  irritable  ways 
They  were.     And  for  the  scars  the  hours  notched 
In  those  dear  foreheads,  watching  o'er  the  child, 

I  raise  a  toast  of  toasts  in  parent's  praise. 
December,    1916. 


A  Christmas  Sonnet 

Out  of  the  darkness  comes  the  glinting  day, 

And  from  the  moist  earth  comes  the  scented  rose. 

From  the  hard  rock  the  crystal  water  flows. 
And  from  the  dark  cloud,  the  bright  lightenings  play. 
The  storm  is  followed  by  the  spring's  display; 

The  present  oft  the  future  does  disclose; 

Immortal    friends   spring   out   of   mortal    foes; 
And  deeds  uprise  from  words  that  Idlers  say. 

But  many  a  heart  insensate  is  to  these, 

And  men  too  often  let  their  good  deeds  die. 

In  place,   excess  and  meanness,   hand-in-glove, 
Out  break.     Oh  that  this  one  day,  men  at  ease, 
Would  to  their  hatreds  and  harsh  thoughts  reply, 

That  Christmas  happiness  is  found  in  love. 
December,   1916. 


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